Translated from the Bengali by Moulinath Goswami

Phoenix and Man 

It has risen today – the bird
that for a thousand years remained as ash;
The people have begun to pour out of their colonies
at this tumultuous news;
But they no longer hold the golden cage.
For a million years
they have gilded ornaments,
crafted thrones;
before the promised cage could be built
the neighborhood had begun to burn,
the best of the cities incinerated to ashes.

Now the homeless are at work
scouting for twigs and straw
hoping to build a nest for The Bird.

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Words from a Sleepy Poet   

Words bring untold pain, sounds torment
the insinuating glance of alphabets causes agony
imageries, indifferent similes breed sufferings
It’s the peerless, not the voluptuous that inflict pain.

Yet the next-door maiden of a poem
unconditionally sips at cacophony in her silence.
Sita flies away in the chariot of Ravana
stoking poison in the hearts of birds and trees.

I look into the eyes of such venom, and see
it is the egotism of the poet that is true,
and poems are vain.

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My Farmer Mother

Who raps on the door at this hour of the night? Who?

I hear the sound of felling of crops in my sleep
I do not hear the knocking at the door.
If you feel like, walk right in;
do not ask for permission.

Are you cloaked in black from head to toe?
Wearing gloves?
Have mask on your face?
It doesn’t matter
Here I cover my face
Here I bare my chest
Plunge something into my chest if you want to
something deep, like a bore well,
into the abyss of this chest;

At least, thus, let it be known to you
my farmer mother
At least, thus, let it be known to me
I am no longer infertile.

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